


a golden tattoo

by witching



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Femslash, Light Angst, Miscommunication, can be read as romantic or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 22:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18397382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: Crowley distinctly remembered the angel telling her that she had planned to go down to the orphanage this evening and do something disgustingly kind. She distinctly remembered telling Aziraphale in response that she intended to spend the evening getting some stray cats acquainted with some aristocrats’ kitchens.And yet, here they both were, swept up in the festivity and the revelry of a ball.





	a golden tattoo

**Author's Note:**

> i've been referring to this in my head and publicly as "15th century italian femslash" since i started writing it, and yet it turns out the time and place setting is almost entirely irrelevant to the end product and the relationship is explored deeply but in a way that could easily be read as entirely nonromantic and nonsexual. anyway, death of the author, and all, but just so you know, in my head, it's 15th century italy and they're in love.  
> the gender thing is just. because i felt the need to write some women. love women love lesbianism.  
> title from taylor swift's "dress" which is a damn good a/c mutual lesbian pining unresolved lesbian sexual tension lesbian song, in my lesbian opinion.

Aziraphale had always been easy to spot in a crowd. Easy for Crowley to spot, at least. In the Beginning, as soon as there were enough people to form what could be called a crowd, Crowley quickly learned how to pick out the angel’s essence among the pervasive stench of humanity, but it was more than that. Between bodies, between centuries, Aziraphale’s angelic aura stayed the same, but so did the human attitude underneath it. Now, after more than five thousand years, Crowley didn’t have to sniff the angel out in a full room anymore; the hair, the posture, the outfit gave it away every time.

Crowley did not have the same instant recognizability. She liked to change things up, and although Aziraphale could always find her if she tried, she _would_ have to try. She didn’t like to try, and she certainly didn’t like to admit that she _had_ tried, after the fact.

They had just seen each other the previous day. A brush past each other in the marketplace, a nothing interaction, but they had seen each other, and they had spoken. Crowley distinctly remembered the angel telling her that she had planned to go down to the orphanage this evening and do something disgustingly kind. She distinctly remembered telling Aziraphale in response that she intended to spend the evening getting some stray cats acquainted with some aristocrats’ kitchens.

And yet, here they both were, swept up in the festivity and the revelry of a ball. Aziraphale presumably did not know that Crowley was there, but Crowley most certainly knew that Aziraphale was there. She told herself it was something about the way the angel carried herself, the dress that was a tad too modest for the occasion, but what first alerted her to Aziraphale’s presence was hearing her laugh ring out across the room. It was not a particularly loud laugh, nor was the room particularly quiet, but she heard it, a high, twinkling giggle that made something in her stomach shift uncomfortably.

Snapping her attention to where the angel stood on the opposite wall, Crowley watched for a few minutes as Aziraphale chatted with a series of increasingly tedious young men. It would be doing her a favor, really, to rescue her from having another conversation about the bloody plague. It would be Crowley’s one good deed for the night, she thought as she made her way across the room, sliding impossibly between tightly packed bodies to reach the angel.

It was easier, at any rate, to think of it as a good deed, than to admit that it was a selfish act on her part. Even if demons were supposed to be selfish, she felt certain that she was not supposed to be magnetically drawn to the angel, not supposed to want to be near her, not supposed to crave her conversation. Even if envy was one of the seven deadly sins, Crowley was sure she would not be commended for feeling jealous of the way Aziraphale placed a soft hand on the forearm of the young gentleman she was talking to.

Aziraphale had never been particularly sociable, but she did have a deep and genuine love for all living things, and Crowley supposed that necessarily extended to boring fops with ruffled shirts. Crowley, on the other hand, was not required to feel any amount of love for any kind of creature, especially for a man of nobility who had never been told _No_ in his life. She gave him a distasteful once-over as she approached, right before subtly bumping his elbow, causing him to spill wine on his stupid white silk ruffles.

Aziraphale tried to offer to help him take care of the stain, but Crowley cut in before she could get a word in. “Oh my,” she hissed, her tone dripping with false concern, “better run along and do something about that. What a shame, such a nice shirt.” She blinked at him several times, her gaze unrelenting, until he scurried off with a mumbled apology.

“That was uncalled for,” the angel scolded as soon as he was out of earshot.

Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale and her disapproving frown. “You look like you’re hard at work,” was all she said in response.

Aziraphale cleared her throat, her cheeks darkening with a flush. “Yes, well. I, erm. You know how it is,” she finished lamely, trailing off without completing a coherent thought.

“Do I?” Crowley murmured, then extended a hand to the angel. “Come on, dance with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked you to, angel,” said Crowley, exasperated. “And because we are two fine young ladies, both attending a ball unescorted, and if I’m not dancing with you, someone else will.”

Aziraphale shrugged and sighed, taking Crowley’s hand and allowing herself to be led into the fray of organized dancers. They blended in seamlessly with the crowd and their movements, because they wanted to, despite the fact that Crowley was leading Aziraphale in a waltz, significantly slower and simpler than the dance going on around them. It was easier to hold a conversation, that way.

“So,” Crowley began, eyeing the way Aziraphale’s strawberry blonde curls were perched atop her head, like the nest of a particularly elegant and fastidious bird. She cast a glance conspicuously around the room before returning her gaze to the angel and pressing a hand in firm against her waist. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Aziraphale shook her head, her curls bouncing but not falling out of their neat formation, and rolled her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she huffed, “but I _was_ doing some rather important work.”

“Hmm?” Crowley arched an eyebrow. “Like what? Spreading love and peace by stroking rich boys’ egos?”

Aziraphale looked up at her, narrowing her eyes pointedly. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.”

“Ah, well,” Crowley said breezily, gazing off into the distance. “Just hope the _orphans_ understand why it was so important for you to be here tonight.”

“That’s not fair,” muttered Aziraphale.

“Oh? Why not?”

“I told you I was going to the orphanage,” Aziraphale explained, slow and deliberate, “because I didn’t want you here.”

Crowley gave an understanding nod of her head, though she frowned a little. “Well, perhaps I told you I had other plans because I didn’t want _you_ here.” It wasn't the truth, but it seemed like a safe enough response.

The angel blinked, finding it difficult to process the statement. “Then I suppose,” she whispered, “we both underestimated each other.”

“Overestimated, more like,” Crowley muttered under her breath, genuinely unsure whether she wanted Aziraphale to hear her. What she wanted turned out to be irrelevant, of course, as the angel’s superhuman hearing picked up on the remark easily.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale’s tone was hard enough to crack diamonds.

Crowley pursed her lips. “Hm?” She looked at Aziraphale innocently, as if she didn’t understand why the angel was so affronted, as if she hadn’t meant to elicit a reaction. “It’s nothing,” she continued, “just a bit of a surprise, is all. You lying to me so you could have your fun without being bothered. I thought… well, I thought you were better than that.”

“I am,” Aziraphale snapped without thinking. “Don’t – you did the _same_ thing, don’t you try to – it is none of your business where I go or what I do.”

“I did do the same thing,” Crowley agreed with a smug quirk of her lips, ignoring the fact that she hadn't done the same thing at all. She _had_ lied to Aziraphale, just not quite for the same reason. In truth, she’d hoped the angel would show up here tonight, but she had a reputation to keep up. “But I’m a _demon._ Lying comes with the job. As does wild hedonism.”

Aziraphale frowned, refusing to look up at Crowley’s face. She shouldn’t be so affected, she told herself, it shouldn’t matter if Crowley had gotten the wrong idea. Although, it was the right idea, technically, even if she couldn't fully admit it to herself. The demon certainly didn’t seem put out over it; in fact, she looked positively gleeful at the opportunity to rag on Aziraphale. But something inside the angel felt wrong, knowing that Crowley thought less of her, now. It wouldn’t do, to have the demon going around thinking that Aziraphale was selfish and a liar. But it also wouldn’t do to have the demon going around thinking that Aziraphale _cared_ what she thought.

“Reconnaissance,” said the angel, rather abruptly and without elaborating. “And networking.”

“Reconnaissance and networking?” Crowley echoed, and raised her eyebrows doubtfully.

Aziraphale nodded her head, satisfied with her explanation. “Yes,” she said, “that’s why I’m here. I didn’t want you messing around while I was doing reconnaissance and networking.”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “You mean watching people,” she intoned drily, “and talking to people. As one does at a party.”

“Yes,” came the faltering reply, “but – but I’m doing it for divine purposes.”

Crowley noted the way Aziraphale’s skin was heating up, how her gaze wandered but never quite reached Crowley’s face. The demon breathed out a soft laugh and shook a lock of dark hair out of her face, cocking her head to the side in order to facilitate eye contact. “Angel, is there a rule against enjoying yourself?”

Aziraphale considered this for a moment, realizing in the process that she didn’t _have_ to be dancing right now. It wasn’t that she particularly wanted to _not_ be dancing right now, but she suddenly felt rather foolish for being so easily tempted into it. She stopped short, keeping her hold on Crowley’s hand, and when the demon tried to take another step, they both fumbled over their feet for a moment before steadying themselves.

“No,” the angel said, indignant, releasing her grip on the demon’s hand and shoulder and needlessly smoothing down the fabric of her skirt. “No, there is no rule against enjoying myself.”

“Then stop making excuses and _enjoy_ yourself,” Crowley implored, squeezing gently where her fingers still rested on the angel’s waist. Seeing that Aziraphale looked unconvinced, the demon flashed a smile, exposing teeth that were perhaps just a little too sharp to be normal. “Come on.”

“Come on where? What are you –” Aziraphale cut herself off, realizing that Crowley was most definitely not listening to her. The demon was busy using the movements of the surrounding throng of people in order to steer the two of them surreptitiously toward a quieter, more secluded area.

“Why do you always do that?” Aziraphale asked when Crowley decided they had reached their destination.

Crowley sat unceremoniously on a stone bench, folding her legs underneath her, and batted her eyelashes up at the angel. “What do I always do?”

“You always drag me off to places without telling me where I’m going,” Aziraphale huffed, but she joined Crowley on the bench. “It’s patronizing; it’s as if… I don’t know. It’s as if you’re in charge, or something.”

“Come on, angel, we both know I’m not in charge,” said Crowley, her sardonic tone belying the truth behind the statement. “Nobody’s in charge of you.”

Aziraphale stared at the floor. “That’s not true,” she mumbled, “there are angels, you know, above me.”

“Sure, Gabriel oversees your professional performance,” Crowley answered, “but is he guiding your hand? Is he pulling your strings?”

Cocking her head and furrowing her brow, the angel turned to look at Crowley. “I don’t have strings,” she said simply.

“Exactly,” Crowley said, in the tone of one who thought she had just made a very good point, despite the fact that her counterpart still did not understand what point, precisely, had been made. “You work for Heaven,” she continued, “but you live on Earth. And you’re allowed to, you know, _live._ You don’t have to lie about it, or anything.”

“I know,” Aziraphale sighed. “I know that.”

“Then why did you?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Why did I what?”

“Why did you lie?” Crowley looked at the angel’s face, narrowing her eyes, searching for her reaction. She didn’t particularly care what reaction it was, just so long as she could find it in Aziraphale’s expression before it was spoken aloud. This was important, for some reason.

What she saw was a series of emotions flickering across the angel’s face in rapid succession, and she felt a sense of relief that she was able to identify them all as they passed: hurt, then guilt, then anger, then exhaustion, then a defiant sort of pride. Aziraphale’s lips jutting out, her eyebrows knit, her jaw clenched.

“I don’t know why it matters to you so much,” she said, stubbornly avoiding eye contact.

“Because it matters to _you,_ Aziraphale.” Crowley bit down hard on her lip to stem its quivering, inhaled deeply before continuing her explanation. “It’s not something that you just _do._ So the way I see it, you wouldn’t have lied to me, unless… unless you thought it was worth it.”

The guilt returned to the angel’s face in full force, her cheeks reddening, and she fidgeted with her fingers in her lap as she struggled to collect herself enough to form a response.

“I just mean,” Crowley continued, unable to stand the silence, “you said you didn’t want me here to interfere with your work. But you don’t have any work. Not here, not tonight. Which means you just… didn’t want me here.”

Aziraphale shook her head helplessly, murmuring a soft “I’m sorry.”

“You don't have to do that,” Crowley said quickly. “You don't owe me anything, I just… wanted to understand, I guess.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly, still staring intently at the floor.

Crowley cleared her throat. “So I… I suppose I do understand, now,” she said, her tone not hurt or angry, but soft and heavy. “And that's that. Glad we cleared it up.” She stood to leave, but felt Aziraphale's hand on her wrist before she had taken a step.

“No,” she murmured. “No, you _don't_ understand.”

Turning on her heel, Crowley glowered down at the angel. When she spoke, she was emboldened, a hint of venom in her words. “What am I missing, then, angel?”

Aziraphale opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. There was no safe way for her to answer the question, nothing that could be true and satisfy both of them. What Crowley was missing was the fact that every time they happened to attend the same ball, Aziraphale spent the entire night distracted, resisting the demon’s inadvertent temptation. She always found her thoughts straying, always drawn to Crowley, the way she dressed, the way she moved, the way she _smelled,_ even. What Crowley was missing was that Aziraphale had thought maybe, just once, she might be able to dance without lusting, to eat and drink without glutting, to watch without envying – only if Crowley wasn’t there.

And the angel was sure, she was positive Crowley would understand, but there was a difference between understanding her motives and forgiving her actions. Crowley knew, she had always known, that Aziraphale wanted to be a good angel, that she thought herself a good angel. And Crowley was used to it by now, the backhanded quips and smug superiority that the angel sometimes put out, but it wasn’t the same as this. Aziraphale had never gone so blatantly out of her way to avoid her before, and she felt awful about it, but she was afraid she would feel worse about the alternative. And it wasn't as if she could voice all of that without embarrassing herself and possibly doing irreparable damage to their friendship, if it could so be called.

Then again, she couldn't exactly stay quiet, or the damage might be worse. She considered it, though. Considered letting go of Crowley's wrist and letting her walk away, avoiding her for a few years or decades, hoping she would forget about a small upset like this. After all, it would take the issue off the table for a while, and she really didn't wasn't to deal with it at this moment.

Aziraphale didn't quit, and she didn't run away; she faced issues, she _solved_ issues. She thought of new and smarter ways to do things that made it easier to live her life on Earth. There was no smart or easy way to soothe Crowley, not this time. To tell the truth would make her a bad angel; to say nothing would make her a bad person; to lie would also make her a bad person, but possibly less so. It was a tricky situation, and she was fairly sure her only hope was to think of a very clever lie very quickly, but nothing came to her.

“It’s just…” Crowley began again, her voice wavering, “I thought, I don’t know. I thought we _enjoyed_ spending time together.” Her voice broke on the last word, and she turned her face away from the angel, clearing her throat. “I mean, I enjoy – I’ve always enjoyed being around you, and I know you’d never say it in so many words, but I thought you felt the same, but I guess not. And that’s fine, I just – I misunderstood. What we had, what we… were to each other. But it’s fine.”

Aziraphale tightened her grip on the demon’s wrist, swallowing down the urge to pull her back. Then she heard Crowley sniffle, and she made a resolute decision, and she did pull. Just gently, a soft tug on Crowley’s arm to indicate that she should come sit back down, if she wanted. Crowley looked back at Aziraphale for a split second before her gaze settled on the point where the angel’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, staring as if she could read Aziraphale’s thoughts through her hand.

“I do enjoy spending time with you,” the angel spoke up eventually. “I do, really. I enjoy being around you. And… I like you. As a person.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Crowley mumbled.

“I enjoy it too much,” said Aziraphale, before she could stop herself. “I like you too much. I’m not _supposed_ to like you. It’s all very confusing.”

Crowley blew out a breath, turning to take her seat beside the angel again. “You never seemed to have an issue before.”

“Well, I tried to ignore it for a long time,” the angel replied matter-of-factly, “but it wears you down, after a while. I just thought…” She paused, mulling over her choice of words. “I thought if I could have a good time here without you, it would mean – something. It would mean that my enjoyment wasn’t inextricably tied to you.”

“And how did that go for you? Before I ruined it?”

“It was awful,” Aziraphale moaned wretchedly. “I spent all night expecting to turn and see you there. I could hear in my head every horrid thing you would have said about the people I was talking to, and I wished you were there to say it, so I could pretend I didn’t agree with you.”

Crowley smiled. “So I did save your evening.”

Aziraphale smiled back at her. “Yes, you did.”

“But I ruined your life,” Crowley teased.

The angel bit her lip, shaking her head, and realized with a slight jolt of surprise that she was still holding onto Crowley’s wrist, that the demon hadn’t shaken her off or pulled away yet. “No,” she murmured, locking eyes with Crowley to show the depth of her sincerity. “No, you didn’t.”


End file.
